


Reverie

by destinies



Series: Tactics-Adjacent [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Dark Kylo Ren, F/M, Masturbation, POV Kylo Ren, Rape Fantasy, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-03 16:18:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13344900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destinies/pseuds/destinies
Summary: He is a black hole that no Light will survive. Not even hers.This is what he tells himself.--Nearly three years into his hunt for Rey, Kylo Ren thinks about what he'll do when he has her.





	Reverie

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Грезы](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13712541) by [Hux_and_Ren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hux_and_Ren/pseuds/Hux_and_Ren), [Tersie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tersie/pseuds/Tersie)



> I owe a huge debt of gratitude to my Beta Squadron, as always, both for encouraging me and improving this tremendously.
> 
> This oneshot stands alone, but plays off of chapter five of [Tactical Surrender](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13183992/chapters/30156201), where Kylo Ren is finally alone with Rey — but things don't unfold the way he imagines. It's set a couple of months before that story takes place.

            Kylo Ren stands before a dwelling that of reminds him of ones he’s seen in holovids depicting Luke Skywalker’s upbringing on Tatooine: domed, white-brown, constructed from some crude substance like mud or clay. Unlike those old moisture farms, this home is nestled among a cluster of other, similar dwellings as part of a moderately populated settlement. But no one is out of doors, now. They know better.

            The name of this place doesn’t matter. The star system doesn’t matter. What matters is that _she_ was here, mere hours ago.

            “Wait for me,” he tells his escort of Stormtroopers, Flametroopers. He doesn’t need them, but these people could stand to be reminded of the might of the First Order. “If anyone tries to run, kill them on sight.”

            He enters the dwelling, only needing the slightest nudge of the Force to open the door. The ceilings are low, and he has to stoop to keep from hitting his head, although she would have had the clearance to stand, barely. He can imagine her being welcomed into this very room, a dingy sitting room or parlor of some sort, by this traitorous family. Having her hands touched in wonder. Being directed to sit on that bench, there.

            Kylo sits down on it, hands on his knees, and looks around. There’s a small kitchen huddled off to the left. She would have been served a beverage of some kind, likely warm in spite of the dry heat of this planet — or perhaps because of it. Hot beverages induce sweat, which helps the body cool. He drags his gloved finger along the stony surface of the bench as if he can coax her perspiration from it.

            Reports indicate that she had spent the night here, in this dwelling, a risk she doesn’t usually take. The family must have needed convincing or time to think. The parents and the two children, he knows. Thirteen and fifteen. That fits her pattern.

            He stands to investigate the rest of the home. Down two steps, this way, is a narrow hall off of which the sleeping quarters branch. He pauses to look inside the first one and finds clothing strewn about, the bed itself unmade. They left in a hurry, then, taking what they could, once she had convinced them of the urgency of the situation. The next bedroom reveals the same, except this one is occupied by two narrower cots; it was where the children slept. But the third room—

            The third room. His breath catches.

            This is an oasis among the chaos of the other bedchambers. It looks as though it normally functions as a study; there’s a small desk and chair carved of some desert wood and shelving that houses various knick knacks, including a clunky, old-model datapad that wasn’t deemed important enough to be taken along. But tucked away in the corner rests another small bed, presumably for guests. In the center of the straw mattress is the indentation that her body left while she slept.

            Kylo crosses the room to the bed in three quick strides, but when he reaches it he just stands there, clenching and unclenching his fists. He can envision her here, the outline of her, curled up on her side, asleep. Hadn’t he seen her sleeping when he looked in her mind? Seen her picturing the island behind closed eyes as she longed for slumber? She slept on her side then too, under coarser blankets than these, upon sand, and alone. Still alone.

            He had given her another option.

            It’s been three years, or very near it, since the day she turned his offer down, turned him down. After that, she’s never been sighted anywhere for long, even though he knows she’s gallivanting off on this ridiculous quest of hers. The rumors of her power only grow as his grasp on the galaxy they share tightens. She still somehow manages to slip through it. But not forever.

            Carefully, so as not to disturb the impression she left behind, Kylo Ren kneels down onto the cot and folds himself to curl around her, pushing his cloak out of the way so that it hangs over the side, pooling on the floor. He sees in his mind’s eye how she bent in on herself, tucked her knees into her chest halfway, how her head would have rested upon the pillow, here. He puts his down next to it and inhales to see if he can catch her scent.

            He’s not entirely certain what she smells like, although he ponders it often, trying to puzzle it out. She always seems to take on the scent of the place she was last. When he’d had her on Starkiller Base, that was the dry, baked, earthy smell of the Jakku deserts. When she stepped close to him in the elevator of the _Supremacy_ , it was a driving rain, a sea breeze. He knows those now to have come from Ahch-To, the island where she found Skywalker. She hasn’t returned there. He checked.

            Kylo sighs and thinks of the softness of her hair, which he has never touched. He thinks about how, when they have the inevitable rematch of their first fight in the forest, he’ll wind his hand in it and _yank_.

            Had he arrived three hours earlier, maybe two, they could have had that. The rematch. She would have walked out of the front door of this dreary home, saberstaff blades ignited, determined to give the occupants within a chance to escape like her master before her. She would. He knows she would. He knows her inside and out.

            Well, not inside. Not yet.

            He reaches down to undo his trousers and closes his eyes, absorbing the shadow of her presence. He knows he thinks of her more often than she thinks of him, but that would be to his advantage in combat. Every move she’s ever made, he’s pored over too many times to count. He would know how to parry her blows, how to tire her out, even with this new saber she’s built for herself. That’s how he would be able to get that hand in her hair.

            Kylo slips his one hand out of its glove. When he touches himself it’s without much thought other than the urgent need of it. The first few times he’d done this after her repudiation, he’d gritted his teeth and sputtered from spite, from secret shame, at the thought that she could affect his body while being light-years away, while closing him off from their bond. But then he found the obvious solution, which went beyond conjuring up slow, painful deaths for her as he coaxed himself to orgasm. No, the obvious solution was much more satisfying on all fronts. He knows he disgusts her, that she thinks him a monster — even if at one time that perception of him had flickered and blurred like a mirage.

            Never mind that. A monster he was always destined to be. The one that hunts her, tirelessly, in and out of dreams. She helped awaken that in him. This is what she’s earned.

            He escapes to his vision, not one the Force has granted him, but one he’ll someday grant himself. It starts the same, although the setting is different. This time they’re dueling on this dusty nowhere planet when he finds an opening in her stance and stomps down on her heel, winds his hand in her hair. Yanks it, so she falls. And as she pitches back, he drags the crossguard of his saber up her front, not in close enough to cut her open, just enough to tear her clothes, to burn her skin like she burned him. Leave her scarred diagonally up her torso, from her left hip bone to just below her right breast. Now they’ve truly marked each other.

            She hits the ground in shock from the burn, and that gives him an opening to swing his leg around and kneel over her. If he’s lucky — if she’s distracted enough by the stinging wound — she drops her guard and he paralyzes her, supine, just like that. And she’ll fight it, of course, trying to jerk and twist the Force to break his hold, but once he has her, he has her. If only she was like him and knew how to draw strength from her pain. Well, she had her chance to learn.

            He wants to finish undressing her himself. That’s more visceral than using the Force to do it. He feels every quivering, resistant muscle under his gloved hands as he peels aside her torn clothing and begins to unravel her. When he cups her breasts, her body betrays her by shaking as the realization of what’s to come dawns on her.

            “No,” she says.

            Sometimes she says it in the same way she’d begged him not to go the way he has, not to seize the mantle of Supreme Leader, not to seek control. He recalls her voice, her plea, drenched in disappointment, and instead of remembering how it rended heartstrings he thought he no longer had, he uses it to fuel his rage. Other times she says it out of disbelief, as if part of her had imagined there was still some Light left in him, and that part can’t conceive of him doing this.

            “ _No_.”

            But there are times when she screams it, raw and pained, as she had when he looked up to see her from the walkway in the heart of Starkiller Base. Those times he believes to be his favorites. He remembers how it felt to ignite his lightsaber through Han Solo’s heart and in his recollections these days the act is uncomplicated and pure. He knows that he has embraced the darkness inside of him now. He knows he’s no longer being torn apart. He is a black hole that no Light will survive. Not even hers.

            This is what he tells himself.

            “You called me a monster,” he reminds her in this fantasy. “And somehow you thought I would disappoint you.”

            He takes his lightsaber and cuts her trousers away with precision, this time without marring her skin. That done, he brings his saber up and plants it, gripped tightly in his hand, next to her head. It faces away from her, but still serves as an implicit warning not to move. And he finally sees her as he’s wanted to for longer than he’ll admit: bare, immobile, about to be his in a way that’s irrevocable. If she will not give herself over to him, he’ll take from her what he wants, as he once promised her he would.

            He imagines the skin under her clothes, skin he’s never seen uncovered, to be pale from lack of exposure to sunlight, and that between her legs she’s unshaven, even though it’s been years since she was the wild desert creature she had been when they first met. He uses his other hand to free himself from his own trousers and her eyes widen as she tries, one last time, to break his hold on her. It’s futile. He knocks her legs apart with his knee and pushes down to rub against her. The sound she makes is like a scream, but quieter.

            It’s nothing compared to the breathy gasp, and then the cry, that he gets when he presses inside. He can almost taste her ache upon his lips.

            She has always worn a range of expressions around him that others have suppressed since he took the name Kylo Ren: naked rage, anger, hatred, fear, defiance. (Compassion, sympathy — _No_.) No deference, no respect. And she’s cried, a few times, in his presence, the ultimate display of vulnerability even though she’s never seemed to care. She’s crying now as he settles inside of her, even as, released from his Force-hold, she claws him, her nails raking at his sleeves. She cries in the way that he’s seen her cry before, with large translucent tears spilling over her lower eyelids, leaving tracks through the dust on her cheeks. Most faces twist hideously when they cry, but hers remains beautiful. It’s not so often that tears are shed _because_ of him as often they as they are _for_ him…

            No. Focus. This is where he wants her, pinned beneath him with one of his lightsaber’s crossguard blades just a jerk of her head away from singeing her hair. He wants to feel her kicking at his legs, now planted firmly between hers, as for the first few moments she still refuses to yield to him. There’s no need to freeze her now that he’s gotten his way, now that he lays atop her with his face so close to hers. When he shifts his hips up he can feel her whimper even as she tries to bite it back. She’s tight — he tightens his grip on himself — he imagines her to be tight, even in the unlikely event that one of her rebel friends has already sullied her. She has narrow hips, and he eclipses her in size, a moon blackening her sun in the midday sky.

            As he thrusts again he can so clearly picture her face, tearful but hardened to him, struggling to stay set that way as another helpless sound echoes from the back of her throat. And again, again, and she squeezes her brown eyes shut and shakes her head because she can’t deny that heat growing in the core of her belly as he moves inside her, the one plaguing him now as he pictures her under him. It’s only fitting, he thinks, that she should have to suffer this too, and he would grip her hip and make her move with him until she does it on her own.

            He knows what she’d sound like, in that moment. He’s always relished her sounds, drunk them in like the sweetest emerald wine. This one would be a cross between a moan and a snarl as she realizes he can bring her pleasure as well as pain. And she’d say “no” again, but it would be a different kind of no, frantic, as her body belies the truth he’s always known: that they belong like this, together. A rising crescendo of “no, no, _no_ ,” as she grows ever warmer inside, as the fire that has engulfed him now threatens to claim her too, as they—

            He jerks his hips into his hand once, twice, presses his face against the pillow where she laid her head, groans, gasps, and then is still.

            Relief.

            A moment, that’s all he needs. A moment to lay here, to look once more at the imprint her body made in the mattress, to think about how she escaped him this time and how next time she won’t be so lucky. Next time, he’ll have her in the way that he wants. In the way she deserves for rejecting him.

            Kylo Ren wipes his hand off on the sheet and picks up his head to shake his hair, now damp with sweat, out of his eyes. He’s remained here too long. It’s time to go.

            He pushes himself to a seated position, then stands, doing his trousers back up, adjusting his clothing. As he pulls on his glove he looks around at the humble little guest room, the space the now-absent family allowed her to have in their home. No one else can have this place where she slept. No one but him.

            He strides out to the front of the dwelling and barks a command to the Flametroopers awaiting him there. “Burn it down and round up the neighbors. Find out what they know. Someone saw something.”

            Three years, or very near it. She can’t keep running forever.

* * *

            Half a galaxy away, in the sleeping quarters of the _Millennium Falcon_ , Rey awakens in a cold sweat.


End file.
